ISLAY - A little piece of heaven

Thursday 3rd June 1993 - Day 8

I left Mrs. Yates and Greenways this morning. Since there is a bus stop just up the road, I didn't bother wasting time and energy by carrying all my luggage down to the pier only to have to wait for the ferry to arrive from the mainland. Needless to say it was late, but with my ferry not leaving until 12.15pm, I wasn't particularly worried. A saw a couple of seals in their usual spot near the castle, but nowhere near as many as the day I walked to see them.

Once at Lochranza, I had to wait a good half an hour, standing in the bus shelter as it was so cold and windy. There was no sign of a waiting room. When the ferry came, about six cars drove on. It was only a small craft, holding no more than a dozen vehicles I should think. Fortunately, there was a place to sit inside, otherwise I may well have been blown overboard. The journey over to the Kintyre Peninsula took about thirty minutes, but it was too grey to do any filming. In fact it was hard to tell where the sea ended and the sky began.

Claonaig at the other side appeared to be no more than a hut and two Portaloos. No-one bothered to check my ticket either when I got on or off and yet there was only one other foot passenger: a lad who it transpired had rung the same number as me yesterday. He told me that he was working on Arran and wanted to get to Tarbert which is further up the peninsula, for a long weekend. He had also got the impression that our transport was organised via the local post office, so when the Post bus arrived, we both jumped in. I was just paying my 50p for the ride over to Kennacraig when our actual driver turned up in another car. We both piled out again with our luggage and had to pay £1 instead. Anyway it was good value for money, as it was really like having a taxi. In fact, the man explained that in the summer they run a proper bus, but knowing there was only the two of us today, it wasn't worth it. I only had half an hour from the ferry arriving in Claonaig to the other boat leaving Kennacraig. The driver reassured me that the ferry had been late coming in from Islay this morning, so it probably wouldn't depart on time in any case.

Within ten minutes we had covered the five miles to Kennacraig. There was nothing to see except the ferry terminal itself which looked like it was in the middle of a building site. I found out later that it is due to close for maintenance from June 14th to 27th. Lucky I had arranged to come now. I bought my Hopscotch ticket for my next two journeys and walked straight onboard as vehicles still queued to drive on. The boat was quite busy with foot passengers who must have come from elsewhere on the mainland in the bus I saw outside the terminal building. We left almost on schedule and I sat out in a sheltered area to stay in the fresh air, rather than be cooped up in the restaurant/lounge for two hours.

As Kennacraig is situated halfway down West Loch Tarbert, it took nearly an hour before we were actually out in the open sea. It seemed even greyer by then and visibility was poor, but the crossing turned out to be very smooth. Eventually off the port side I could make out Islay. It looked a rugged island with little sign of habitation. I thought how pretty it must usually be arriving in Port Askaig, with Jura on the other side of the narrow sound.

Having rung the Halsalls to confirm that they could still meet me as arranged, mentioning that I have a green coat, green rucksack, etc., I waited until all the other foot passengers had disembarked before going down the gangway, in the hopes that I would be easier to spot that way. I could see a man in his fifties waiting at the bottom. As soon as he saw me, he said "Miss. Wilson?" and I knew it had to be Mr. Halsall. Once we started talking in the car, I discovered that he comes from Liverpool where I went to University, has a brother who lives (or used to live) in my home town, was stationed at nearby Nottingham during the war and has a daughter who went to the Sorbonne in Paris.

He sped across the island, past Finlaggan which was the ancient seat of the Lord of the Isles in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries and on to Bridgend where the road forks. We took the coastal road heading west, through Bruichladdich with its white distillery buildings and then the picturesque village of Port Charlotte. From the address, I had assumed that the house was called Nerabus and it was in (or at least near) Port Charlotte. However, once he had driven straight through the village and showed no signs of stopping, I wondered where the place could actually be. As the single-track road went up and down, he finally pointed to a white house on the horizon. It transpired that Nerabus is the name of the old homestead, which now encompasses a group of houses, starting with the B+B and including a couple of farms.

I was welcomed by Mrs. Halsall and two huge black labradors, Sam and Jesse. She has given me a ground floor twin room with ensuite bathroom for the first three nights and said she would move me into the single room (which I had booked and was therefore expecting) at the weekend.

Once I had unpacked, I tried to get my bearings a bit by going for a walk up the hill towards a farm called Octofad. Mrs. Halsall (Patricia) suggested that I take a track across the moors leading to a deserted village. This part of the island, known as the Rhinns of Islay, seems more rugged than the area we drove through between Port Askaig and Bridgend. I saw some more curlews along the way after hearing their distinctive call, but since she said that dinner would be ready at 6pm, I didn't venture too far.

After my initial thoughts of "what on earth am I going to be able to do stuck here in the middle of nowhere?", I soon realised that this place is exactly what I came for. Just then it reminded me a bit of Harris. As I turned to head back to the house, the sun came out. I dawdled looking out over the sea. Near a beach on the other side of the island I could see what must have been the "capital", Bowmore and further around there were mountains in the distance. It made me wonder where they had come from. The crossing was so cloudy and grey, I obviously missed out on a lot.

I had dinner by myself, as the other guests were eating out. The Halsalls must eat theirs upstairs, as they soon disappeared with trays, rapidly followed by the labradors. Fortunately, this meant that I could eat at my own pace. There was even a coffee pot, whisky and some chocolate on the sideboard.

On tonight's menu:

Fish with mashed potato, carrots and cauliflower in white sauce

Fruit salad

Islay cheese with biscuits

The lounge has a huge seven by seven foot window and three smaller windows overlooking the sea which can be no more than 150 metres away. Two pairs of binoculars sit on the windowsill by a large trunk draped in tartan. It's a very homely, lived-in sort of room cluttered with table lamps, library books and old copies of the island newspaper, the Ileach. A signed photo of Harold Wilson stands on a side table. Black and white photographs of rhinos, elephants and lions cover the walls, with Scottish scenes and dog pictures on and above the mantelpiece. From the clues offered to the visitor's eye, the Halsalls would seem to have led interesting lives. With her long, yellowish-white hair and slightly overdone make-up, Patricia obviously prides herself on her appearance. She originates from Queensland, but must have left a long time ago, as she has no trace of an Australian accent.

I finished my meal and sat looking out to sea. The food was delicious and the view superb. Around 8pm, I saw a man out in a boat inspecting his lobster pots. He came to look at some not far from the house, all marked by little pink buoys bobbing up and down. As guest houses go, I think it would be difficult to find a more relaxing setting. Flicking through the visitors' book, I found nothing but compliments on the excellent food and hospitality received. All the previous guests have evidently seen the place as a little piece of heaven.

Friday 4th June 1993 - Day 9

This morning I had breakfast overlooking the sea with a couple from Sheffield who were at the end of their cycling holiday. They had left their car at the Kennacraig ferry terminal and hoped it would still be there when they returned to collect it. Apparently, it is a favourite spot for car thieves, as many drivers prefer to travel as foot passengers rather than pay £40+ to bring over their vehicle.

Mr. Halsall offered to give me a lift to Bowmore, so I went with him on the drive around the coast. We stopped for petrol at a farm supplies store on the outskirts of the town, then he dropped me off in the main square. I bought an OS map in the Tourist Office and picked up a bus timetable. It was a grey, windy day so I thought I would explore the town before deciding what to do.

The main street leads from the square up the hill to the famous Round Church, one of only two in Scotland. Legend has it that it was designed so there would be no corners for the devil to hide in. The white body of the church is about twenty metres in diameter with a rectangular tower at the front. Built in 1769, it looked as though it had recently been refurbished inside. The walls were decorated with lists of all the children born in the parish. I found some steps leading to a wooden balcony, but didn't venture up into the tower. There were few other visitors, in fact at one point I must have been on my own. The visitors' book contained many recent entries, including several foreigners who had been there this week.

When I left, the weather seemed to have turned even duller and colder. I went into the gift shop opposite the square to browse through its large selection of postcards and local books, which kept me entertained for quite a while. I picked up some cards there, having seen none in the Tourist Office, and bought the Islay & Jura Visitors' Handbook - only £1.50 for 80 pages.

Needless to say, it was raining by the time I left the shop. Fortunately, I was able to nip two doors down the street to the bakers which, as I had discovered by flicking through the Handbook in the shop, has an upstairs tearoom. I was able to sit down in the warm for a tuna and salad roll, orange juice and piece of bannock (a sort of sweet oat cake). Luckily, it wasn't very busy, so I stayed there over an hour - watching the rain outside and scrutinising the bus timetable to work out where I could possibly go.

The town didn't seem to have much to offer the tee-total tourist on a wet day when the last thing you would think to pack in your rucksack was a swimming costume (Bowmore's "attractions" being limited to the distillery and the newly-opened swimming pool). Apart from the rows of white terraced houses and a couple of hotels, the few other shops were mainly for food, so there was nowhere else to amuse me for long.

In the end, I decided to take the bus over to Port Ellen and back, just for something to do. Standing at the bus stop, I got talking to a lady who was waiting for the Post bus to Port Charlotte, which is where I actually wanted to go, but knew there wasn't a service bus for another two hours. Within a few minutes, a big red van came down the main street from the Post Office and we piled into the back, slamming the heavy door shut. This was nothing like the postman's car I'd mistakenly got in at Claonaig. It was a real bone-shaker of a ride, where I thought my head would hit the roof each time we went over a bump in the road. You needed to watch out for sharp bends to try to stay in your seat, but what with facing sideways and rain streaming down the windows, I couldn't see where we were going well enough to anticipate what was coming next. Anyway, it only cost 79p and it did get me to Port Charlotte in one piece in the end.

This meant that I could keep out of the rain by looking around the Museum of Islay Life, housed in what used to be the Free Church of Port Charlotte. It was bought by the Museum trust in 1976 and opened the following year. Inside were an illicit still, a farm's medicine box, photos of farming and fishing in years gone by, a selection of toys and exhibits showing life on a croft in the nineteenth century with numerous old farming implements, tools and kitchen utensils. There was a whole section cataloguing all the shipwrecks there have been around the island's coast. It mentioned the American Memorial, a lighthouse-shaped monument to the 266 servicemen who drowned here in 1918. One troop ship was sunk by a U-boat and a second went down after a collision off the west coast of the Rhinns. The monument is located on the peninsula known as the Mull of Oa. In fact, I think I may have seen it on the headland yesterday, as the peninsula is opposite the B+B. Perhaps with the binoculars I might be able to see it more clearly. I read somewhere that the graves were near Port Charlotte. The Museum also contains an extensive library of papers and documents relating to Islay. The lady I met at the bus stop told me that her son spends a lot of his spare time in there reading about the history of the island.

I left after an hour or so and walked down the main street to the old distillery warehouse which is now a youth hostel and field centre. The Halsalls had said how interesting it was. Tickets are valid for a week, so you can go in as many times as you like to consult the nature library and ask the staff about any wildlife you may have seen. It was all very new with a laboratory, lecture room and exhibitions. On display were a range of skulls from mammals and birds, a selection of shells and photographs of all the local plants and animals, together with details of the island's new tree plantation programme.

When I left it was starting to clear up a bit. I had noticed a place called the Croft Kitchen opposite the museum, so I went in for an orange juice and piece of shortbread. It was also a gift shop with all the books and knickknacks arranged around the walls. You could drink and browse at the same time or have a meal from their imaginative menu.

I walked through the village, looking at the Gaelic street names up on the walls of the houses. I went past the hotel which had been closed down and saw the only shop: the Post Office-cum-grocery. I also spotted an old red telephone box. The island is evidently unaffected by progress at British Telecom. As the sun was starting to come out, I took one of the back streets leading down to the sea. All the whitewashed houses looked identical along the front. A man stood fishing on a small concrete jetty.

I decided to walk back to Nerabus as I knew it was only two miles down the road. One by one, all the clouds disappeared and it turned out to be absolutely glorious. I could see hills on the other side of the island that I never imagined were there. On my left, lush green fields led down to the sea, mirroring the clear blue sky above. The twisting road went up and down, giving me glimpses of the rocky coastline. Given that it was only a single-track road, I moved onto the grass each time a car passed by and each time the driver waved back at me. One lady even stopped to offer me a lift.

It was so gorgeous when I got back to Nerabus that I didn't want to go indoors. I finished off my first video tape with some shots of the B+B and the magnificent view. To the right of the house stands a ruined mill by the sea. Also close by is the old cemetery where ancient carved gravestones have been recently uncovered. Patricia has written a book about the history of Nerabus using archive material from 1850 to the end of the Second World War. There's a copy of it in my room, but I've not had chance to read it all yet. If I'm lucky, she might give me one before I go.

Dinner was just as healthy and nicely presented as yesterday's.

Today's menu:

Home-made vegetable soup

Salad comprising Islay cheese, tomato, grated carrot, lettuce, prawns, plus a mixture of celery, raisins and apple in mayonnaise

Crème caramel

Cheese and biscuits

Saturday 5th June 1993 - Day 10

This morning I had breakfast watching the hens outside in the garden. There's even a cockerel which I have heard crowing. Patricia offered to drop me off on the road to the RSPB reserve at Gruinart which occupies most of the north-west quadrant of the island. I walked across "the flats" to the Visitors' Centre situated in the middle of a farmyard. Several of the barns have been converted to house video cameras which you can operate by remote control from the upstairs section of the Centre. It also had some high-power binoculars and a register of all the birds seen by visitors. They were still setting up some of the display boards for bird identification. Further down the road was a proper hide overlooking the tidal Loch Gruinart.

On the way back I was walking past some bushes and heard a sudden commotion. Realising that I must have startled something, I stopped. After a few seconds, a tiny fawn with a beautiful reddish brown coat scampered off up the hill. Apart from the birds, it was almost the only sign of life I came across. Once past the flats, I did see two or three farmhouses, but I was only passed by a couple of cars throughout the entire morning.

When I eventually made it back to the "main road", I set off towards Bridgend. The tide was a long way out, revealing the mudflats of Loch Indaal. Two riders were out on horseback at the edge of the water. The road cut across a large area of flat grazing land leading down to the shore. Several motorists narrowly avoided collisions with the wandering livestock. It was getting quite hot by this stage, the initial haze having cleared. I finally reached Bridgend and managed to catch the bus over to Bowmore.

Today was billed as Gala Day in Islay's annual festival, Feis Ile. Unfortunately, I had already missed the Pipe Band, although I did see a few of its members all dressed up in kilts and furry hats. In the main square, there was a sort of street theatre act on stage with clowns and fire jugglers. Makeshift stalls were selling hot dogs and burgers, together with something I've not seen for years: old-fashioned blocks of ice cream sandwiched between wafers. All of Bowmore must have been there, if not almost the entire population of the island. Some music started up and I drifted down to the pier. It seemed to be a popular temporary break, with a non-stop trickle of people detaching themselves from the crowd, wandering aimlessly to the end of the curved stone pier and then back again before rejoining the throng in the square. I sat for a while near some lobster pots looking at the rows of white houses around the harbour. In the distance to the north, I could see the distinctive round summits of the Paps of Jura.

After all the walking I had done, I caught the bus back to Nerabus and wandered down to the sea behind the house. In one of the dips in the field I found a rusting car lying on its roof, an old fridge and various other unidentifiable bits of scrap metal. A veritable graveyard which you couldn't see until you stumbled across it. I moved further on and sat watching the oyster catchers on the rocks. Black and white, with a long orange beak, they make a lot of noise for a small bird. I scrambled along and came to an inlet that looked ideal for a smugglers' cove - just enough room to land a rowing boat on the shingle at low tide. The sea must gradually be carving it out of the rock. It was so peaceful, it seemed a shame to leave, but I had to return for dinner at 6pm.

Tonight's menu:

Cauliflower cheese and tomato baked in a huge dish and made with really yummy Islay cheese

Strawberries and cream

Cheese and biscuits

No-one else was eating in again this evening, so I sat looking out to sea. The Halsalls tell me that on a clear day you can see Ireland. I peered through the binoculars, but it had started to turn hazy. My face must have really been caught by the sun and wind this afternoon. I'd scarcely recovered from being burnt at Lochranza. Now the skin on my ear lobes is beginning to peel. Patricia has said that she will be able to juggle the other guests around to avoid moving me to a room upstairs as she had originally anticipated.

Sunday 6th June 1993 - Day 11

This morning I shared my seaview breakfast table with an elderly brother and sister accompanied by their nephew and also a couple from Glasgow who were mad about golf. They had been playing on the course at Machrie at what sounded like considerable expense.

Having heard about a pretty village five miles south of Nerabus, I decided to walk over to Portnahaven. No buses on Sundays of course. Once again, the road twisted and turned, up and down, up and down, as if just for the fun of it. Telegraph poles lined the way, so I knew there must be habitation out there somewhere, but you could never see that far ahead. First I came to a farm tucked away behind a large hedge, next to a stream running into the sea. A little further on was Easter Ellister farm with its artificial pools full of wildfowl. There wasn't much traffic. One car went by though with the occupants waving at me - it was the party of three I'd met at breakfast. I didn't know they had planned to go down to Portnahaven too. They obviously couldn't have been very impressed with it to be returning so soon.

Much later I passed Wester Ellister where some youngsters were having a very wild time on an old jeep. Here the road turned west, leading away from the sea for the first time. With two small hills on either side, I wondered whether the way had been blasted through the rock or was natural. The road had definitely been recently resurfaced which made it a joy to walk on. As I left the cutting, I could finally see down to the sea at end of the road in the distance.

Past the playing fields, I came to the school, then reached the outskirts of the village. I saw that the general store was open and managed to get myself some cheese biscuits and crisps for lunch. The only other shop seemed to be the Post Office. I walked down to the water's edge to find somewhere to eat. There were a couple of benches, but by now it was so sunny that I was desperate for a proper sit down to cool off. The only place I could find in the shade was the bus shelter overlooking the harbour. I ate my snack in there, as the villagers filed past in their Sunday best, the bells calling them to church.

Conditions were perfect for filming the clear blue sea and ring of jumbled white cottages around the harbour. As I walked down the hill, I noticed that virtually all the front doors were open. By a tiny stretch of beach, rowing boats reflected in the still water in an almost Mediterranean-like scene. A few hundred metres offshore, a couple of low-lying islands formed a natural harbour wall. I trained my field glasses along the grassy top of Orsay, the larger of the two, to examine the ruins of a chapel dwarfed by the lighthouse. Behind the houses facing the inner harbour, a road ran around to the village of Port Wemyss. Directly overlooked by Orsay, it appeared to be more like an extension of Portnahaven, a sort of little sister. Two neighbours stood chatting outside a house above whose front door sat a pair of antlers. The street wound its way back to the main road and I started on the five-mile return journey to Nerabus.

Fortunately, it was turning duller by the minute, otherwise I think I may well have suffered heat stroke or at least more sunburn. Just before reaching Octofad farm with less than half a mile to go, I was attacked by a swarm of flies. I tried to dodge them to no avail. In the end I fooled myself into pretending they had gone by putting on my sunglasses. Pity I was so tired or I could have made a run for it, but they obviously preferred me to the surrounding herd of cattle. I finally returned safely to the B+B, only to realise that I had a blister on the sole of my right foot. No wonder it had been hurting the last couple of miles.

I had dinner with three cyclists from the North of England who worked in the education field. Patricia gave us whole salmon, ramekins of hot new potatoes with mint and salad. Afterwards they wrote up their journal and checked their mileages on a mini computer.

Monday 7th June 1993 - Day 12

I overslept this morning and finally awoke to the sound of the other guests leaving. The Glasgow couple took Peter to the airport as it is on the way to Port Ellen where they were catching the ferry. The three cyclists were heading over to Jura and then on to Colonsay. I hurried through my late breakfast in time for the bus which passes the house just before 10 o'clock.

In Bowmore I caught the minibus for Port Ellen. After the first couple of miles, the road runs absolutely straight across bleak, flat moorland with few points of interest. Houses were scarce. Halfway to Port Ellen we passed the tiny airport. Close to the sea, the runways looked dangerously short. There were several buildings on the other side of the road, including a craft shop and a tearoom which I had seen advertised. Nearer to my destination I began to see some of the hills in the east and soon we were there.

At first glance it seemed a sleepy village, somewhat lacking in character. I would never have guessed it was a ferry port. Down by the harbour I saw some storage tanks, but no sign of a ticket office. It must have been well disguised. The restaurant I had intended trying for lunch appeared to be closed, but the general store was open so I bought a copy of The Scotsman. I peered through the window of a shop called Snipshape on the opposite side of the main street, but it too looked closed. I wandered down past the police station and post office to the green overlooking the bay. Sitting by some picnic tables on the freshly cut grass, I half-heartedly read the paper, just as the sun was starting to come out.

My only chance of food was a café further up the road. It looked a dingy place, you couldn't see inside properly through the beige blinds across the window. Three council workers sat outside in their lorry eating fish and chips with cans of fizzy drinks lined up along the dashboard. A couple of cars arrived and farmers or labourers went in for their daily take-aways. Once inside, I found that it wasn't as bad I had expected. There were three other people at another table: a lady visiting a couple of friends. I ordered a cheese sandwich and a can of Fanta, since there didn't seem to be much else for me to choose. A few people came in for cigarettes and sweets at the adjacent counter, as well as a stream of locals wanting their fish and chips.

I didn't feel like walking too far after yesterday's exertions, so I just followed the main road out of town, past some old distillery buildings and over to Kilnaughton Bay. Later I caught the bus back to Bowmore and waited ages for the connection through to Nerabus whilst all the children came out of school.

An elderly couple were waiting at the bus stop each carrying a huge ancient metal-framed backpack covered with bright green plastic (to make them waterproof I assume). The gentleman also had a large box tied up with string. I can't imagine what was in it. They got off at the Youth Hostel in Port Charlotte and asked the driver about buses to Port Ellen. He was shocked to find out that, although having booked long in advance, they are being turned out of the Youth Hostel tomorrow. The man who runs the place has a block booking and needs all the rooms. They said that he has recommended a B+B for them in Port Ellen. From conversations the couple had with various local passengers, I discovered that they are going over to Colonsay on Wednesday on the same ferry as me.

Patricia seemed a bit upset when I returned. Apologising for the inconvenience, she asked me to move into an upstairs room and hoped that I didn't mind sharing a bathroom. It was all because of a gentleman who booked quite a while ago, but never mentioned his condition. He is extremely overweight and has recently suffered a heart attack. On seeing the stairs, he didn't think that he could manage to get up them. Unfortunately she had already filled the other room on the ground floor with a couple who had dropped off their luggage and gone out for a drive. With the other chap already huffing and puffing on his arrival, she became quite worried and had to leave him sitting in the lounge until I got back.

My new room is actually better and brighter than the other one. It has windows on two sides, one looking up the road and the other out across the sea. The selection of books on the windowsill includes one by the newsreader Nicholas Witchell about the Loch Ness Monster and another by Derek Cooper detailing his tour of the Hebrides which I doubt I shall have time to read before I leave.

As I was unpacking my things, I heard a car being parked on the drive. A middle-aged couple got out and began speaking a very odd sounding language. When I met them later at dinner, I discovered that they come from Anglesey. After all my years abroad, I'd forgotten about Welsh. I'd expected them to be Eastern Europeans or something. Once we got talking, they said that they plan to go to Jura tomorrow, which was also my intention, so they very kindly offered to give me a lift in the car.

Tonight we had delicious pieces of smoked white fish in a creamy sauce, with broccoli and carrots, followed by fruit salad and cheese and biscuits. Joining us for dinner, the other gentleman thanked me for vacating the room for him. We soon realised that he lives on his own and enjoys talking about himself at every opportunity. Whenever one of us mentioned something, he jumped in straight away saying he'd done it, been there and had bought the t-shirt - or knew someone who had. The Welsh couple and I soon started rolling our eyes and exchanging conspiratorial smiles when he wasn't looking. By the time we reached dessert, I'm sure we were all hoping that he'd have an early night.

Tuesday 8th June 1993 - Day 13

This morning when I came down to breakfast, Patricia had put all my birthday mail on my place at the table. I had suspected a conspiracy all along and it did indeed transpire that Dad had been in secret communications with them. The give-away was that my sister's card was waiting for me the day I arrived here, but strangely nothing else had turned up, so I knew something was going on behind the scenes. I received six or seven cards in the end, with a food parcel from a friend arriving second post today. Everyone wished me a happy birthday and Patricia said that Peter had sent me his best wishes when he rang after his flight yesterday. With oversleeping, I had missed him yesterday morning and didn't get chance to say goodbye. Today is also the birthday of the Welsh couple's grandson who is now two years old. Apparently he is having a big party back home in the village.

After breakfast, we drove over to Port Askaig, arriving just in time for the five-minute ferry crossing due to leave at 10.30am. We nearly missed it though, as Wil and Bet were trying to book accommodation for the end of the week. One landlady in Port Ellen had to check with some of her guests first before ringing them back at the payphone. By this time all the cars had been loaded on and Wil was trying his best to reverse into the only remaining space. It was obviously not a task he was used to and definitely did not enjoy, but the ferryman gave him both encouragement and directions. Bet and I jumped on at the last minute and suddenly realised that we were stuck there against the bows for the duration of the crossing. Luckily, there was just enough room for us to squeeze past the car and get in at the back, otherwise I think we would have got quite wet. After chatting away to a group of locals parked behind us, the ferryman finally came around with his money bag, only moments before we landed at Feolin. We never did understand the tickets he gave us - four singles and one return for the car, but we used them on the way back.

Jura looked grey and inhospitable. The low clouds were almost black, enveloping the famous Paps. Their names translate from the Gaelic as The Mountain of the Sound, The Mountain of Gold and The Sacred Mountain. They lie in the west which is wild and virtually uninhabited.

Taking the island's only road, we drove around the southern tip, then headed up the east coast. Five miles out of Feolin, we came to Jura House at a place called Ardfin meaning White Promontory. Built by the Campbells in the middle of the last century, the house is currently owned by the Riley-Smith family of Tadcaster, but only the grounds are open to the public. Inside the gate, there was an honesty box and a huge map. The £1 admission charge included a small guide book to the two walks you could try. We opted for the shorter one, as it would soon be lunch time and besides, we still had the rest of the island to explore.

Surrounded by trees, ferns and grasses, we went down the muddy path by the burn. After a few hundred metres we crossed over to the other bank and followed the path down towards the sea. Leaving the woodland, we came out into a field where the path split in two. The guide book relates the interesting story of the crofting township of Brosdale which the Laird's wife had demolished because it spoilt her view from the big house. She had another village built for them out of sight, but it was soon deserted. From here you can also see two little islands offshore. The one on the right is Am Fraoch Eilean or Heather Island which controlled the entrance to the Sound with its now ruined castle. We clambered down to the beach. It was such a peculiar grey colour, Wil felt he had to pick some up. Pity I didn't have a bag, otherwise I could have taken a sample. The guide book said it was made from grains of the local quartzite. Further along, the path ran next to some of the famous Jura slate and I picked up a little piece as a souvenir.

We made our way back up the ravine and through more jungle to the greenhouse where plants were on sale. We went through the potting shed and into the walled garden. Several people were at work, including the head gardener, a Dutchman who had been there for eighteen years. Bet and Wil had quite a long conversation with him and a Welsh girl who was working on the vegetable patch. The staff live in the basement of the house, but have the place to themselves mostly, as the rich owner rarely visits. We glimpsed the house from the woods at one stage on our walk. In a secluded spot, it looked quite modest with only a small front lawn. We stopped in the walled garden for a while. It was almost split in two by a row of trees. An ornamental stream ran down through one half. As Bet went back to buy a plant, I took the opportunity to film some of the flower beds. One of the gardeners poured himself a drink out of his flask, as he sat on the bench by the lawn. I noticed midge repellent in his bag. We left the ordered garden via the north door and found ourselves passing through more dense woodland to reach the main road, having spent a good hour or so on the mile-long circuit.

We returned to the car and continued northwards. The land was green and hilly. High wire fences lined both sides of the road. Wil recognised them as deer fences. Sure enough, a little further up we saw some. Apparently Jura comes from the Norse words meaning Deer Island. Today over five thousand live on six estates on the island. In contrast, the human population is only around two hundred and fifty.

Three miles up the road we came to the "capital", Craighouse. Realising that it was probably the only place on the island where we could eat, we stopped for lunch in the Jura Hotel. Having each picked up a leaflet which detailed various points of interest on the island and contained a useful map, we settled ourselves down at a table in the window of the bar lounge overlooking Small Isles Bay. Bet and I tucked into sandwiches, whilst Wil sampled some of the local venison with chips. By the time we left, it was absolutely packed. I wanted to pay for their lunches to thank them, but they wouldn't even let me buy them a drink, let alone pay for my share.

We drove through the rest of the village, past the distillery and the church. A minibus was parked outside the school. This was the first sign of public transport we had seen, so it could well have been the only bus on the island. I reckoned that I was fortunate to be in the car with Wil and Bet, otherwise I doubt I would have got very far from the ferry terminal.

We spent the afternoon slowly driving northwards through the hills, watching the mainland emerge from the low cloud on the horizon. About halfway up the length of the island, the road started to climb. From the top we could see Loch Tarbert cutting deeply into the land from the west. Another mile and it would have severed the north from the south. It looked a lovely area to explore on foot, but we didn't have the time. The village of Tarbert was down at sea level on the east coast. As a place name it is widespread in Scotland since it signifies an isthmus across which boats could be dragged. We continued on our way, the road surface gradually deteriorating the further north it stretched. At one point, it wound up and round until at the top there was a sheer drop on the right. I'm sure that the Welsh couple must have been used to such roads back home, but they both remarked that part of the crash barrier was missing.

Later, Bet spotted some Highland cattle, so her husband stopped the car to take some photos. Up until this point, we had scarcely seen another vehicle which was just as well since it was now down to a single-track road. Needless to say, a car suddenly appeared from nowhere and of course we were blocking the way. Bet hurriedly rattled off her snaps and got back in. The driver in front of us had not stopped in the passing place nearest to him, effectively forcing us to reverse. The car pulled up level with us and there was "our friend" from the B+B. Having had some of his driving grumbles related to us at dinner last night, we expected the worse. However, he must have thought better of it and drove off warning us how difficult it was to turn around at the end of the road.

We continued on our merry way, passing the three cyclists who stayed at the B+B on Sunday night. Crossing over a bridge, we came to a field of deer. A track unsuitable for motorised vehicles led through a gate and into the distance. Eventually it reaches the northern tip of Jura, where George Orwell wrote 1984 and almost lost his life in the Corryvreckan whirlpool. We stuck to the road as it curved around and stopped at the sea.

This was Inverlussa. Two houses stood empty overlooking the grey sand beach. Next door a family on holiday were unpacking their car. Wil went over to talk to them, as I tried to film a herd of deer roaming nearby pasture. The lady told him that they had chosen the spot because it was such a safe place for the children. Bet wondered what would happen if one of them had a climbing accident. We had all noted the old red telephone box between the houses. I said they would probably send a helicopter from the mainland and wandered back to the deer. No matter what I did, the creatures resolutely kept their backs to me, so I gave up after my third attempt and focused my attention elsewhere. A stream ran down from the surrounding hills and over its little bridge a path led along the left bank to another small cottage.

Having stretched our legs, we turned the car around and started back. After a few hundred metres, we stopped momentarily for Wil to investigate an old graveyard by the roadside. He was surprised to discover a couple of recent stones and soon got back in the car. The weather became brighter and brighter as we drove south. It was better for filming, but I didn't like to ask them to stop. I caught a glimpse of some swans on the sea, possibly in the same place as depicted on a postcard I bought the other day.

Just before reaching Craighouse, we turned off the main road in search of Keils, an old crofting settlement where Bet wanted to see the thatched cottages. Unsure as to whether we had taken the right turning, we came face to face with the mobile shop coming around a sharp bend. We carried on past a couple of houses until arriving at some derelict cottages up a track. An old man was burning something, so we pulled up to investigate. Wil, always interested in what other people have to say, got out to talk to him. Bet and I rolled up the windows to stop the smoke getting into the car. We wondered what on earth he had set fire to exactly. The smell was awful. To us it looked like long grass. He had piles of the stuff all carefully laid out on a sheet of black plastic just waiting to be put on the smouldering heap. Bet and I started inventing possible stories. He looked as though he had never left the island. Wil found out that he only had a bicycle. Apparently he was burning weeds. The man said that the thatched cottages had all fallen down now - one almost on top of his cow. As we came away we did indeed see a few sad-looking ruins.

We headed straight back to Feolin for the 4.30pm ferry. The weather had suddenly turned very menacing and it looked a desolate place to get stranded. There was just a waiting room and toilets, nothing more. The big Cal Mac ferry had just left Port Askaig opposite and was ploughing its way back to Kennacraig. Battling against the current and wind to get across was our tiny ferry. It seemed to be getting blown further and further down the Sound. The yachts were all cutting along at a fine rate of knots. Like this morning, we were the last car onto the ferry. We were lucky, the two cars behind us would have to wait forty-five minutes for the next crossing. I learnt that there is talk of a direct ferry link from the mainland to the northern tip of the island. It sounds as controversial as the bridge over to Skye.

Once safely back on Islay, Wil and Bet wanted to explore Bowmore and the west side of the island. They were worried at finding the B+B accommodation that they had arranged in Port Ellen. When they mentioned its name, I realised that I had walked right past it the other day. It was a big house with a sign in the front garden indicating that they made pottery. It was situated on the left-hand side of the main road into town, after what looked like a council estate opposite the distillery, and next to a red telephone box. They couldn't miss it. In fact it was the same place as the elderly couple had been sent to from the Youth Hostel. I told them all this and they dropped me off at Bridgend where I caught the bus back to Nerabus.

Patricia was highly amused at our encounter with "our friend" on Jura. I was dreading dinner with him alone, listening to more stories of himself. As it turned out, another guest had arrived unexpectedly. It was a man from the Forestry Commission who had just come over for the day to look at the new plantations. He flew in from Glasgow alright this morning, but was stranded by the deteriorating weather conditions. This afternoon's plane was able to land, but couldn't take off again. The poor chap didn't even have a toothbrush with him. Patricia said that a similar problem befell her daughter on one of her visits. When she did eventually manage to fly out, the only seat left was in the cockpit.

..... Go to the next chapter ......

Journal index - Info on Islay and Jura

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May 1998